32Smokescreen didn't have a fighter's servos. Funny how she'd never noticed until now.
They weren't heavy and broad like the Wreckers.' They were easily as dexterous as Ratchet's, but still not as thick. They couldn't have been built with the intention to punch or shift to a plasma cannon.
But now, the one servo she could see from her vantage point on the floor wasn't doing anything at all. His arm hung limp off the side of the medical table as Ratchet raced against time to perform a miracle. Energon and coolant dripped steadily from the fingertips onto the floor to join the other rivulets stemming from ruptured fuel lines flowing into a drain on the floor.
She was aware of giants walking around her and over her. Some said her name – tried to speak to her – console her. But, all she could focus on was that one too-graceful, too slender servo.
Jack and Miko stayed by her. Jack, because he felt responsible for her and maybe for this whole ordeal. Miko, because she might possibly have an idea of what was going through Arcee's processor after their little talks of late.
Ratchet had his work cut out for him. She'd seen the procedure done before at the infirmary a few times – with a zero percent success rate. But, that had been with med school dropouts, overworked doctors, spotty power, diluted energon … Ratchet moved around the table, his hands flying over Smokescreen's body without a wasted movement, removing plating, connecting lines, plugging in monitors, running scans.
He'd stabilized his spark quickly, but that had been the easy part. The acid was a reactant to energon, corroding fuel lines and anything that energon came in contact with. When he'd jumped to save her and the kids, it had been pumped double-time into his spark, his processor, his fuel pump – everything. When flushing his whole system hadn't worked, there was only one option left.
"What's happening to his paint?" she heard Jack whisper.
The luster had dulled, and the blue and gold pigment of his photo nanites faded to gray as they lost signal from his processor.
Arcee had to swallow the thick, hot knot in her throat before she could find the voice to reply. "He's … he's dying."
"Dying?!" Miko almost shrieked. "He can't die! Ratchet saved him! He …"
Arcee grabbed the hysterical personification of her own fears and doubts and hugged her tightly.
"Shhhh … it's okay. It's going to be okay." Her reassurances sounded hollow in her ears, but saying them out loud felt like she was doing something at least. "Ratchet has to do it. The only way to save him … is to shut him down the right way, so he can bring him back."
Vaccine had explained the process after she'd thought she'd witnessed him murder a bot on his exam table in the most agonizing way possible. The bot had died of course, for reasons beyond Vaccine's control, but he assured her he had been trying to save him.
Ratchet had to first pull all of the mech's nanites out into a stasis vessel. The tainted energon and coolant was then drained from his system completely. Smokescreen's spark immediately went into shock as a result, giving Ratchet less than a cycle to bring it back on line. Cleanser was forced into his coolant and fuel systems to flush out any remaining pollutants. Weakened lines ruptured under the pressure, and the trickle from before had become a steady stream down the drain in the floor. The spark chamber, processor, and energon pump were isolated with seconds to spare and hooked up to an auxiliary pump and power supply. If everything was functional, regulating his spark again and synching it to his processor and pump should have been basic medic training.
But, that was a big if.
Smokescreen's spark flickered and sputtered, a muted glow at the bottom of his spark chamber compared to the only other time Arcee had caught a glimpse of it. She might not have been able to speak Cybertronian with her current vocallizer, but she still understood when Ratchet swore and began muttering his way down a checklist of supply lines and circuits as he traced the lifelines through Smokescreen's vital systems.
The three of them held their breath as they watched him solder and spot weld his way from processor to spark chamber, then … another flicker as Smokescreen rebooted … another convulsion as his systems synched … and finally, the monitor announced a weak but steady sparkrate.
The room vented a collective sigh of relief.
"Well done, old friend," Optimus praised in his usual calm.
"He's not out of trouble yet, so save the congratulations," the medic explained as he injected Smokescreen's nanites back into his holding tank. "His lines need to repair. Once he's resting under his own power, THEN I can take credit."
He looked down at Arcee and the children.
"But, he'd be a lot worse off if you'd not gotten his holoform back to his body."
She could only nod in understanding.
"Bumblebee should take Jack and Miko home. It's late," he pointed out.
Neither had any arguments after the long night, and Arcee numbly accepted their hugs and comforting words before they left her alone with her team. Ratchet returned his attention to her and offered a servo. She looked at him confused.
"I'm afraid I need to take a closer look at the stasis lock on your body." Of course, fixing her had been the lowest of his priorities. "I wouldn't suggest dispersing until I've done a full diagnostic. It'd be best if you got comfortable for the time being and rested and refueled."
She looked around at the faces above her and felt like all of them were feeling sorry for her. For Smokescreen or the stasis lock, she wasn't sure, but Arcee didn't care for the vibe either way. She couldn't deal with this right now.
"I'm fine," she dismissed, glancing longingly toward the door Bee had left by. "I need some air. Maybe Fowler can find me a real bed."
The medic stood up again empty-handed and looking doubtful.
"Well … just … don't go too far. The lock might have affected the range of your nanites," he added lamely as his excuse for keeping her from running off and hiding.
Arcee escaped the hanger, trying not to sprint. Somehow, the building had managed to feel smaller than it ever had when she'd been in her real body. And, once outside in the cool, dry night air and the safety of the shadows cast by the security lights, she finally allowed a few tears. The stress and fear of it all had gotten to her. Yes; that's all it was.
Heavy peds approached on the pavement behind her. Assuming it was Optimus, she didn't leave her spot, but when she turned to face him, Arcee was surprised to see Ultra Magnus. He either wanted a full report or to tear into her for letting his personal servant drone almost get offlined. She didn't feel up to one or the other, but now there was no escaping.
"Lieutenant."
"Sir."
How had she ever thought he was imposing before, she wondered, regretting stepping as close as she was used to addressing him from but not backing down.
"I expect a full report by tomorrow, after you've had time to recover per Ratchet's instructions."
"Yes, Sir. I'll get it to you as soon as I can."
He nodded stiffly, but seemed to continue to study her for a few seconds longer than was awkward, as if expecting something further.
"I had been meaning to talk to you in private … before tonight."
"No time like the present," she tried not to snip at his insensitive timing.
"Indeed," he stated, seemingly missing her sarcasm. "You're quite an interesting femme."
She blinked. That hadn't been the next thing she'd expected to come out of his vocalizer.
"Umm … why do you say that … Sir?" the woman added just to be on the safe side.
"I vet all of my soldiers when I'm reassigned. No exceptions. It's crucial to understanding what I have to work with when under pressure."
"Alright ...?"
"When I looked up your files, I found a track record to rival Wheeljack's – minus most of the infringements, of course. But, curiously, there was very little personal history. I did however, uncover a lot of credits changing servos when you enlisted, and you being denied all of your requests to be stationed closer to the fighting. In my experience, that almost always means wealthy creators, or in a femme's case, maybe suitors."
Arcee resisted the urge to shift her weight on her feet but didn't break optic contact with him. Anything she'd had to hide didn't mean anything any more.
"Creators," she admitted. "I ran away, changed my designation, adjusted my age ... Are you going to arrest me?"
"No. Why would I? I assume whatever you felt you had to prove, you've done so several times over, and now, you're a damn good soldier who I'm glad to have on my side."
She arched a brow at the rare praise.
"You have been rebuilt by this war from the spark up. You've been involved in several of the worst skirmishes on Cybertron. You've lost your share of fights as well but picked yourself back up. And, you've lost your share of comrades."
"No offense, Sir," she bristled, "but is there a point?"
"You adapt and adjust your own defense mechanisms to handle it," he continued, unphased by her discomfort. "You use the resources you have available to get the job done. You push through. You endure. And, as a result you are a warrior in all but title as far as I'm concerned." He surprised her even further when he lowered himself to his knees and sat on his tires to bring himself closer to her level for the first – and probably only – time. "But, you understand that Smokescreen is not."
She let her anger deflate a little and finally surrendered a nod.
""He's not unlike you were when you started, you know?" the mech vented. "Optimus asked me to train him in areas where the Guard failed. And to look out for him as much as I'm able. He's seen … potential … in Smokescreen, so I promised to do my best."
"Then he's in good servos," she admitted honestly, running her fingers through her hair, studying the mech's knees on the pavement.
"Something happened a few weeks ago," he stated, making her meet his optics again and her pump feel like it seized in her chest cavity. "I haven't dug too deep to save the time and effort of having to reprimand anyone, but there's really only one reason for Smokescreen's sudden change in attitude. Don't bother denying it."
She sighed, shaking her head. "No, Sir."
The mech vented a weary sigh as well. "Let him go."
"What?" she looked up at his optics again as if she'd misheard him.
"He almost got himself offlined for you tonight."
"And Jack and Miko!" she said, suddenly feeling on the defensive. "He'd have done that for anyone on the team, Sir."
"Then you feel blameless?"
"No! I … look, I just … It's not …" she floundered.
The commander's expression hardened. "Lieutenant. Smokescreen still sees a bright, happy ending to all of this. Megatron defeated, Cybertron revived, the Decepticons laying down their weapons … You and I know that that's not going to happen, and there are those among even the most noble, well meaning Autobots who would take advantage of a new recruit's optimism for their own … satiation."
"Yes. I know."
"I'm sure you do," he conceded, but without the accusing tone this time. "He deserves someone who's capable of caring about him."
"But, I do care!"
"Then let him go. You owe him that much at least after tonight."
Arcee was speechless. Her eyes felt hot in their sockets as anger threatened to boil over again. Ultra Magnus blinked, but if he noticed her displeasure, he ignored it.
"I'll be expecting your report in the morning," he added, getting to his peds.
She couldn't find the words to acknowledge the order, and he didn't wait for it, turning to return to the hangar.
What was he implying? She was damaged goods? Not good enough for Smokescreen? That she was using him … like Cliffjumper used her.
"Frag it!" she screamed to the limits of her fleshy vocalizer and listened to it echo off the buildings.
"Why do I have to park so far away?!" she demanded as she backed into the cramped storage unit Ratchet had rented for them.
"Well, for one: my date should show up with me in my ride," the red Challenger explained, waiting patiently on the gravel drive outside. "Two: It's a long, dirty way back to your body if you think about wimping out."
"I will not wimp out!"
"Uh huh." He was rightfully doubtful. This situation, the assignment, the fact that she'd been ordered – worst of all – made Arcee doubt her too. "And three: You're not going to be needing your body for a whole lunar cycle. What the frag does it matter where you park it?"
"Of course it matters. What if someone tries to mess with me or steal me?"
"Doc and Fowler have tapped into the security cameras and set up proximity sensors all around this place. You'll be fine."
"Says the mech that gets to keep his body."
"Who also isn't allowed to disperse his nanites under normal circumstances. I know how to control myself, and we need a car." Said car's passenger door opened. "Now come on. The sooner we get started, the sooner we can be back in your berthroom at base.
She groaned. "Can't we just … I mean … You're the expert," she finally stated accusingly. "When in the Pit should I need to use a holoform?"
"Maybe never, but what Prime says goes."
"Oh please! Like you've never disobeyed an order."
"Not from Optimus Prime," he pointed out truthfully but smug. "And, neither have you."
"Couldn't you just say I got it out and practiced?" Now to try negotiating. This called for a change of tactics. "Come on, Cliff," she all but purred. "We could find a nice place to lay low for a month and take it easy. I promise I'd make it extra special."
Arousal tinged his energy field a little, but he still felt much more amused than anything.
"As much as I know I'd enjoy being distracted by you all month, Doc'll know if you run the program or not and for how long."
"That's a load of slag," she accused.
"Is it?" he chuckled. "Are you absolutely sure 'the expert' doesn't know what he's talking about? Come on," he coaxed, beckoning with his swinging door. "You want me to turn mine on first?"
"No. Just … give me a nanoklik."
Arcee couldn't believe she was about to run a Decepticon program.
"Gotta power down first."
"I know! I'm working on it!"
Amusement hummed in his energy field despite his stern goading. One would think making the femme furious was the only thing he got any pleasure out of.
"What if I'm not even female?" she proposed. "Ratchet said that was possible."
"Then we'll go to a different kind of bar. Now, stop stalling, Cee."
The motorcycle vented a tight sigh through her fans but finally settled on her axles and gave the command to run the program.
The very first sensation she experienced as a human was the cool night air making the follicles on her skin stand up. She never would have thought humans were so hairy by just looking at them. The cavity in her chest began to burn, and something in her helm behind her optics began to pound.
"Don't forget to breathe," Cliff warned in the nick of time.
Her optics opened to the sight of her speedometer and gas cap. She shivered, instinctively hugging herself and covering her exposed external modifiers. When she tucked her chin to her chest, dark brown hair fell over her shoulders. Arcee touched a soft sheaf of dead skin cells and ran it through her fingers. Something was on her skin she discovered, but the tiny brown paint speckles wouldn't rub off.
"Aww … See? You're cute."
Cute was not on her top ten list of adjectives she wanted to hear in this situation.
The sound of Cliff's engine stopped, making her look up, and she watched as his nanites formed his own avatar in the passenger seat. He had the benefit of being fully clothed since he'd loaded his up many times before this.
"I told you to wait!" She felt hot blood rush to the capillaries all over her skin. Her voice sounded foreign to her.
"What? Like it's any different seeing you with eyeballs instead of optic sensors?" the man chuckled, getting out of the car.
"It feels different," she insisted, materializing an enormous blue t-shirt to hide in.
"Now, you're not wearing that," he chided, still grinning. "We're going out somewhere nice. And, I'm dressing up for you."
Faded jeans and worn leather boots hardly passed for dressing up, even with the glaringly new red, button-up shirt he'd loaded. To complete the look, a charcoal-gray cowboy hat had solidified in his hand, and he put it on just to tip it at her.
Unlike the others, who'd experienced first-hand the joy overexposure to solar energy while they'd been resealing the leaky roof of the silo, Cliff's skin simply darkened to a bronze that almost matched the shade of his hair. He looked like he didn't put much, if any, effort into his appearance, but his build said he worked harder than most. He had a little more fluff around the middle than Bulkhead's holoform – which suggested he partied hard too – and the premature (according to him at least) white tufts at his temples made him look older than Ratchet's.
"Are you going to get off, or do I have to make you?" he asked, stepping into the doorway of the unit and stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"I could interact with humans from here."
"Cee, your feet can't even touch the ground," he pointed out. "Just get it over with. Take a few steps away."
She looked at the dirty concrete floor like there was a light year and a thousand Cons between her and the door but pulled a leg over and slipped off the side of her seat furthest from him.
The man's smile broadened. She hadn't gained much height by standing up, and Cliff's holoform was definitely taller than she'd estimated from the safety of her real body's bipedal form. Arcee straightened up bravely though and took her hands off the seat and handlebar.
"Great! Now, take your toes off the kickstand," he instructed, leaning over her seat to confirm she was cheating.
Too proud to argue anymore at this point, she steeled her nerves … and stepped back.
There was a gut-wrenching, terrifying fraction of a second after the hardline connection broke and before the remote control kicked in when she felt nothing, but then she was stumbling on shaky stabilizers to keep from falling the rest of the way down.
"Excellent!" Cliff genuinely praised. "See? The worst part's over, and now you don't have to go through that again."
She didn't feel relieved – more like exposed, vulnerable, soft, and squishable, and she hugged herself, trying to calm her ventilations.
"It'll pass," he promised more gently. "Come out here and touch me. It'll help."
She took a few wobbly steps on strange peds made out of bone and cartilage out the door to the red car with him. The Challenger felt warm and calm, and Arcee had to resist the urge to hug a fender.
"Good." The man grabbed the top of the door, and she felt Cliff run through some routine system checks for the sake of giving her something familiar to feel. He opened a search of the internet via Ratchet's satellite and rifled through a few thousand pictures before the starch eased out of his shirt, and the red dye faded from a few dozen wash cycles.
"Better?"
She nodded with a smirk.
"Alright. Your turn," he said, jutting a thumb back to her body. "Just a fingertip for now. You don't want your nanites to jump back to the hardline yet. You'll learn how to control them better as you get used to feeling the difference between your holoform and your chassis."
Arcee nodded again, touching one of her mirrors. Her system pinged to her that everything was fine, and she opened her own search like usual along with the textile parameters Ratchet had given all of them.
Humans seemed to think dressing up for females meant not wearing pants, but she didn't want to out-dress her 'date' too much. So, after scanning through a few hundred fashion blogs and country-western magazine articles, she settled for boots similar to his that gave her a couple precious inches and a short, white cotton dress with a light blue floral pattern which showed off as much of her odd – but apparently socially acceptable – skin blemishes.
"Will this work?" she asked, admiring herself in his window.
On second thought, she stepped back to the motorcycle to produce a rose quartz pendant and earrings to match the pattern on her dress. When he didn't respond, she looked back up at Cliff. He finally grinned and nodded, leaning against himself beside her reflection and watched her try to put her hair back.
"Fine, fine," he hummed with approval. "But … you might get poor old Clifton arrested."
She paused too look down at her outfit again. "Too much skin?" she guessed.
"Oh no, not that," he chuckled, reaching to finger the soft material of one of the dress' straps. "That looks perfectly adorable on you. It's just … I think you should jump in the back and let me make a woman out of you before we head out."
Arcee smiled, not bothering to hide her excitement at the prospect of something new and different to play with and tugged him down for a deep, indulgent kiss to get his blood pumping to all the right places. But, she stopped his hand on the door handle.
"No."
"Wha?" he asked dumbly.
"Nope," she repeated sweetly. "You missed your chance to have me all to yourself for a whole month. And, trust me, I was ready and willing to blister the paint off your interface array to get out of this. But … you were right. This isn't so bad," she proclaimed smugly. "So now … you're going to have to convince me to give your dirty old man a chance."
Cliff smirked, meeting her eyes. His were more gray than blue, and what she'd assumed was an aquiline nose, up close, turned out to have actually been broken at some point.
"So, you're saying I've got to wine and dine you properly before I can get into your little blue panties?" he deduced, pulling the door down then punching in the security code to lock it.
"Correct," she smiled. "Some movies and music I've been hearing about wouldn't hurt your chances either."
"Oh really? Any more demands, now that you've got me where you want me?"
"Hmm … I can't think of any more 'demands' right now, but if you took me dancing, you might be able to get into some much littler, lacy, red undergarments instead."
Cliffjumper's engine started again with a roar that rang off the cinder block walls loudly, and his holoform turned back to face her with a smirk.
"Nnnnn … that's very tempting, but I'll see what I can manage with dinner and a movie."
She felt her nose wrinkle with a pout, but the man moved to hold his passenger door open with another tip of his hat and handsome smile. Arcee rolled her eyes.
"You're no fun, Cliff."
"On the contrary," he smiled, watching her step into his body. "I'm more fun than you know how to handle."
Maybe Cliff could have found a way to even make her dismal situation fun. She found herself missing him again. He'd have put up a force field of annoyance around her to keep Ultra Magnus away. Then again, Ultra Magnus wouldn't have given a frag that she was 'banging' the veteran. And, it would've been him on that medical berth instead of Smokescreen.
Not wanting to cross the commander's path again for a while – or anyone's really – Arcee gave in to her scout programing and made herself scarce. Fowler knew how to find her. Optimus knew how to find Fowler. So, if any immediate need for a human female that Miko or June couldn't fill came up, she wasn't off the radar completely. But, no one had needed her bad enough to find her yet.
She kept to the smaller buildings on the base – her room and the lobby at the B.O.Q., the archive hall, and her personal favorite: the employee kitchen in the basement of one of the office buildings. With no windows, encased in concrete, at the end of a maze of drywall and cubicles, it was usually just her and the appliances. The stale florescent lighting, the hum and click of the refrigerator cycling on and off, and if she was really quite, the distant sound of the fighter jets taking off from the runway, it almost made her a little homesick.
She pushed a slice of banana around with a plastic spoon until it was covered in the yogurt then mashed it against the roof of her mouth with the utensil, considering the texture and flavor thoughtfully without breaking her staring contest with the microwave's blinking clock.
"I'm surprised you didn't try all the junk food at the mess hall like Bulkhead and Bumblebee."
Arcee blinked, glancing up at the man in the door. This was another holoform that didn't exactly blend in according to the rules. Maybe that was another reason Ratchet hated using it as much as, if not more than, she did hers.
"They were also stuck in the latrine overnight too, if you recall," she reminded, adding another slice of fruit to the tub.
"Oh, I remember. I was commenting on your self-control."
She chuckled dryly around the spoon, watching him duck to get under the door frame then pull another chair up to the table beside her.
"Actually, this is the fastest way Cliff showed me to acclimate my digestive track before I can go get tanked."
"I see," the man hummed, producing a flask from a pocket in his fatigues. "I prefer just keeping mine sterilized."
He offered it to her, but she waved it off.
"How'd you find me?"
"I asked our other scout where he'd be hiding if he was human sized."
"I'm not hiding," she said sourly. "Just taking a break is all."
"From who? Ultra Magnus?"
Arcee finally looked up from her food to meet his eyes. Ratchet smirked triumphantly, taking a pull from the container.
The man looked nothing like an old, trustworthy paramedic, but he was still unmistakably Ratchet. He was taller than any of the others with a lean build verging on gaunt, but his arms and long, calloused hands possessed a sinewy strength that could still manhandle even Bulkhead's holoform's considerable size and strength into submission on an exam table. Add in the fire-colored hair to match his temper and unnerving ice-blue eyes, and it was no surprise the few humans who'd seen him gave him a wide berth.
Today he was wearing boots and cargo pants he'd probably scanned from passing soldiers and a gray tank top that revealed the lifelines tattooed on his scar-riddled forearms and an old battalion number on the back of one shoulder.
If he ever put on a white coat, he'd have looked like a mad scientist out of a bad horror movie. But, if someone presented him to you in a line-up of a dozen human doctors to choose from and handed you your severed limb as you bled to death, anyone would have pointed to him with a resounding 'that guy!'
"Smokescreen's awake," he stated when she didn't answer.
Arcee couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief. "Good."
"He asked for you," he continued, leaning back in the chair to stretch his long legs out more comfortably. "Ultra Magnus told him you were too busy."
"Oh yeah." She held up the banana she was slicing. "So busy."
"Arcee, what did he say to you?"
"That he wanted my full report on what happened."
"What else? You only disappear when you're especially slagged-off, and I haven't seen you disappear for three whole days since Cliffjumper was grinding your gears."
"You'd be slagged too if you were stuck in your squishy, slow, single-processor holoform with a bunch of crazy humans after your parts."
"You know that's not what I'm talking about."
"Fine." She put the knife and fruit down a little too hard. "He told me to stay away from Smokescreen. Okay? He said Optimus wanted him to look out for him, and I'm a bad influence."
The man gave a bark of laughter that made her jump.
"And you believed him?"
"What was I supposed to do? Argue with him?"
"For starters," he chuckled, taking another drink. "Smokescreen is perfectly capable of making his own decisions – good or bad – and deciding which he should learn from. He's matured in leaps and bounds on his own just since landing here. You've done nothing wrong save maybe not reminding Ultra Magnus what's under all that rust behind his interface panel."
"Ratchet!" she had to snicker, smacking his arm. "I'll never be able to reformat that image out of my memory core."
"Sorry," he sighed. "But seriously, the only thing that mech remembers about any sort of intimacy is that it's against the rules. The rules have changed. Optimus knows that. That's why he left you and Cliffjumper alone."
Arcee scoffed. "You sure it wasn't because it would've been too much work partnering Cliffjumper with anyone that didn't know how to persuade him into behaving?"
The medic sat up in his chair again. "You know, now that Miko isn't here to ask awkward questions, I'd like you to explain to me why – if your relationship with Cliffjumper was really so 'casual' – why did you let him mark you?"
"But, I didn't let him," she insisted. "I didn't know he'd done it until you said something. Honest, Ratchet."
He tented his fingers thoughtfully.
"I did a scan every time we interfaced," she went on. "He always used neutral transfluid."
"But, it was in your holoform reserves," he pointed out. "That has nothing to do with transfluid."
She felt her face heat. Was she seriously having this talk with Ratchet?
"He told me holoforms only made the … human … uh, stuff."
"That's true. It's the reason we never let you be out with him longer than a month."
Her stomach clenched up at the implications, but Ratchet waved it off.
"Femme holoforms have a safety mechanism, is what I meant. Your hormone systems stall for a month; it keeps undercover missions a lot shorter and simpler," he explained. "However, Cliffjumper could have transferred nanites if he was hardlined to his body."
"… oh."
"Oh? How many instances come to mind now?" he smirked.
"I guess … a few." She had no chance of hiding the lie from Ratchet, but let him believe whichever truth he wanted to think had happened. "Still, he never said anything about it."
Ratchet studied her a moment longer then shrugged, finally breaking his unsettling eye contact.
"Did Ultra Magnus order you not to see Smokescreen?" he asked, returning to the previous subject to her relief.
"Not exactly."
"You tell me if he does," he said, pushing himself to his feet again. A hand engulfed her shoulder and squeezed gently. "In the meantime, come see Smokescreen. To … aid the healing process."
She smiled for him. "Yes, Sir."
Either she'd come at just the right time of night, or Ratchet had ran the commander away from his guard post. Neither mech was in the med bay or around what had been Smokescreen and Bumblebee's hangar.
Fowler had arranged for several refrigeration units and dehumidifiers, and they hummed loudly around the outside of the building. Inside, the room was dark and cold enough to see her breath. In her true form, it would've only seemed pleasantly cool for a healing and resting bot. She made a note to bring a coat next time, but she couldn't afford to waste her opportunity tonight.
Smokescreen's fans could be heard running on a low setting still, despite the chill of the room, and she could make out his arm hanging over the side almost touching the floor in the light from the open doorway. This time, it was just relaxed though, and he was recharging soundly on his stomach as most doorwingers preferred, leaving his sensory panels free and alert to their surroundings.
Arcee couldn't help smiling up at the placid faceplate at the edge of the berth. He'd be fine. She lifted a hand to touch the back of his gauntlet but reconsidered. Better to just let him rest.
But, when she turned to go back to the door, something almost tugged her off her feet by her shirttail. She stumbled back and was caught by the backs of fingers against her back.
"Smoke …?"
The mech grinned when she looked back up at him. The blue glow of his half-shuttered optics illuminated the rest of his face.
"Hey," he whooshed through his vents.
Arcee smiled, hugging his gauntlet, reveling in the reassuring signals through the softline.
"You want me to get Ratchet?" she asked, pulling away from the heat of his plating a little reluctantly.
His fingers curled around her, gently, but she'd not be able to get away easily.
"Mmmm … no thanks. I'm good."
She didn't feel like talking him into it and hugged his arm again, pressing her cheek to the warm metal and relaxing.
"Thank Primus you're okay."
Smokescreen scooped her the rest of the way off her feet and pulled her up onto the berth with him, tucking her close to the vents from his cooling system and the still-hot air being cycled away from his overtaxed systems.
"Why are you still in your holoform?" he whispered, pressing her back into the softline.
"Ratchet can't get the stasis lock off," she explained. "Yet, I mean."
When his smile wavered with realization, she got up to move where she could stroke his faceplate.
"I could be a lot worse off. How are you doing?" she asked, changing the subject.
"Eighty-seven percent, but Ratchet's got me running on minimum fuel levels to break my lines back in."
"So no more jumping for Ultra Magnus for a while, at least," she reasoned, "or trying your damnedest to get offlined. Please." Her voice cracked into a whisper. "That … that was so stupid, Smokescreen."
The mech only grinned in his defense.
"Well, it would've been all your fault if I'd offlined," he vented. Arcee sat up as the knot of guilt tightened in her gut. His cyan optics swiveled to meet hers, still smiling. "If you hadn't initiated me, I'd never have saved you."
He was joking, but it still resonated too closely with her own inner debate.
"Arcee, I'd have done it for any bot on this team," he reassured when she didn't seem to catch his teasing.
"Yeah … I know … it's just …" She shook her head and tried to smile for him.
The mech ran a few diagnostics over the softline to prove he was fine and soothe her.
"So, do you think we might be just a little more than friends?"
Arcee shivered, and he pulled her back to his vents again, thinking it was the cold.
"We shouldn't be, Smokescreen. It's dangerous."
"I don't care …"
"And against the rules. But …" She sighed. "You asked me before all this if I regretted what me and Cliff had. I've been thinking about it, and ... I didn't – not anymore. We were each others source of relief from it all. We filled in whatever empty places we could for each other to help get through. If that was more than a teammate or friendship, then I think I'd like to have that with you."
Smokescreen's servo loosened on her and he processed for a moment.
"What if I want more than that?" he finally asked.
Arcee blinked away tears she'd known would come but shook her head.
"No. I can't do that, Smokescreen. I'm sorry. Just can't."
He vented another warm sigh against her back.
"Did you ever tell Cliffjumper that?"
"He knew."
"Did he? You told him you couldn't love him?"
The knot in her stomach had climbed up to her clench her heart, making every beat ache to her fingertips.
"Never out loud, but he understood …"
He picked her up again and lowered her to the floor where she slid off his fingers.
"Well," he vented tiredly, "thank you for being honest with me. But, I think I'll settle for friends and teammates."
He gave her a half smile, and a fingertip came up to stroke her arm reassuringly, then he pulled it back up so he could shift to his other side facing the wall.
"Night, Arcee."
She swallowed, trying to clear her voice. "Yeah. Goodnight."
Ratchet was outside the door when she emerged and took in the sight of her blotchy wet face.
"Bad decision?"
"No. You were right about him. He made the right one."
I'm so sorry everyone. I'm afraid this story is going to have to be put on hold indefinitely.